


but I'm still an animal

by livthelion



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bitten wolf Derek, Cats, M/M, cop stiles, i'll add more later i'm tired
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:41:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22857940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livthelion/pseuds/livthelion
Summary: Stiles is helping Scott out at the clinic when an angry guy comes in looking for a dog. Two guesses who
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 52
Kudos: 430





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> the title is from 'Animal' by Miike Snow  
>  _I change shapes just to hide in this place, but I’m still, I’m still an animal_  
>  Nobody knows it but me; when I slip I’m still an animal
> 
> Hi guys. I'm still working on my other WIPs, but they're not coming together as easily as this did so instead of staying stagnant, I thought what the hell. might as well. I'll post another chapter soon, and yes, I actually mean it. I have the next five or six written already. just tweaking the ending. Life's hard. I'll finish everything eventually
> 
> (just realized that people might not actually adopt animals from a vet clinic, dc pretend for the sake of plot that people occasionally do leave/bring in animals to get adopted there (also, I’m too lazy to change it hahahaha) Let’s just say it’s a small town and the clinic doubles as an animal shelter. can't even remember how it worked in canon it's been a while since i've watched)

Stiles is in the back room, counting down the minutes until he gets to go home and take a much-deserved nap, when someone rings the service bell at the front desk, twice in quick succession.

He whips around, startled by the noise, and accidentally knocks his head on the edge of the cage he’d been cleaning out. As he gingerly presses his forearm to his temple, testing for tenderness and/or blood, he hears another impatient little _ding._

“Coming!”

Stiles rips his gloves off with an irritated grunt, grumbling under his breath as he heads to the sink to wash up.

That fucking bell. The office’s patrons love it almost as much as he resents its’ existence. He’s tried throwing it out multiple times, but Scott somehow always manages to find it no problem (stupid werewolves). And yeah, yeah, people need a way to let him know they’re waiting when he’s away from the front desk, blah, blah, blah. He’s heard it all before, Scott. The thing is annoying.

After the last time Stiles had hidden it – buried in a box behind the clinic about oh, four, maybe five days ago – Scott had finally snapped and told Stiles that if he “misplaced” it again, he’d be sure to “misplace” Stiles’ next check. Needless to say, Stiles is going to have to find another pastime to preoccupy him when he’s bored and the ringing of the bell has pushed him over the metaphorical edge.

And it’s not that he needs the money, exactly; he gets a decent enough check from the Sheriff’s Department, but it’s nice having the extra cash around sometimes, like when he accidentally breaks something important – which happens more often than he’d like – and has to pay for repairs/replacements or wants to buy himself a better brand of coffee than he usually gets.

Scott and Isaac could probably afford to hire someone else, someone who complains less, works more instead of spending the majority of his time screwing around and playing with the animals, but sometimes there’s... let’s say, _strange_ traffic coming in and out of the office. Their options are limited.

So they keep Stiles on because he’s good with the animals and he doesn’t freak out whenever he finds someone passed out in the kennel, covered in blood and sprouting fur or fang. Which happens pretty often because Scott McCall, local veterinarian/resident Alpha, also plays the role of physician for the supernatural population of Beacon Hills, CA, and surrounding areas.

The person at the front desk rings the bell again.

“Be with you in a sec,” Stiles calls through gritted teeth.

He dries his hands, pastes on his ‘customer satisfaction guaranteed’ smile, and approaches the counter.

“How can I help you t-today, sir?” He falters as he comes face to face with the clinic’s newest patron. Who is very, uh, stacked. His mere presence has Stiles feeling scrawny and unattractive.

He also seems pretty angry, thick eyebrows drawn in tight as he glares down at a pamphlet. His eyes widen for a split second when he catches sight of Stiles, and then the angry expression comes back tenfold. Stiles nearly flinches back at the intensity of it.

It stings a little, immediately being hated by this chiseled, angry man, but Stiles shrugs it off and dons a polite smile, raising his eyebrows pointedly. _Well?_

“I’m looking for a dog,” Murder Face says. He shifts uncomfortably after he says it, too, like he feels he’d revealed too much about himself in that short sentence and regrets it immensely.

“I never would’ve guessed,” Stiles says drily, making a point of glancing directly at the booklet he holds in his hands. It reads ‘So You’re a First Time Dog Owner’ in bold, happy letters.

Murder Face looks away, ears pinking up noticeably.

Stiles tries not to find it cute. Nothing good ever comes out of being attracted to someone that pretty. Besides, this guy is obviously a dick.

“Well, we have a few up for adoption in the back, if you wanna follow me,” Stiles says cheerfully, happy to have knocked Murder Face down a few pegs. And yeah, maybe it’s petty, but his ego took a shot the minute this guy walked into the place and he refuses to feel bad about evening out the playing field.

He steps around the counter and walks toward the back room without checking to see if MF is following him.

“Did you have a specific type of dog in mind?” Stiles asks, glancing over his shoulder, filling the silence out of habit more than anything else. Murder Face doesn’t seem all too eager to engage. The feeling is mutual, but Stiles is a professional.

The guy just kind of grunts, tensing visibly as they draw nearer to the cat cages. They make it a single step inside the room before the cats start hissing and yowling, burrowing themselves into the back of their cages.

Murder Face’s eyes go comically wide and he steps closer to Stiles, who almost splits his lip trying not to laugh.

“Don’t worry about it,” Stiles says reassuringly, mouth twitching. “They’re a picky bunch.” It’s true. They still kind of hate Isaac and it took Scott years to learn to hide his scent enough that he could actually work with them. They tolerate Stiles. “If you see one you like, though, that entire block is up for adoption.” He motions at the felines in question.

Murder Face nods, still looking worried, and Stiles shrugs to himself. Must not be a cat person.

Stiles digs through his pockets looking for the office key ring Scott keeps threatening to staple to his forehead if he loses one more time. He panics when he comes up empty, but belatedly remembers tossing them in the filing basket beside the appointment sign-in sheet at the front desk.

“Crap,” Stiles sighs. “Hold on, I forgot the keys up front. Wait here.”

He thinks he hears Murder Face mumble something that sounds like, “Please don’t leave me with them,” but Stiles is already halfway out the door.

When he comes back a couple minutes later, Murder Face is standing in front of one of the cages, wiggling his fingers through the slots, expression soft as he lets this five or six-month old rescue Stiles has privately dubbed ‘Dickwad’ gnaw on his fingers. (In the short time the kitten’s been there, she’s both managed to claw Stiles on at least six different occasions and enact two prison breaks. None of them have a fucking clue how she manages to get out, let alone help any of the other cats out. If Stiles didn’t know any better, he’d swear the thing is a shifter.)

When he realizes that Stiles is watching, MF rearranges his face into a scowl, gruffly clears his throat and says, “I’ll take this one.”

“Thought you wanted a dog,” Stiles says teasingly. The guy’s ears are slowly turning red, and Stiles can’t help himself, he _needs_ to see how worked up he can get him. It’s a character flaw, sue him. “A big one. Cujo-like is what I heard.”

“I never said that,” Murder Face snaps.

“Implied then,” Stiles says easily. “I read between the lines.”

Scary Spice looks away from him, irritated, wagging his fingers at the cat, who is staring up at him adoringly, purring and mewing sweetly. Stiles can’t really see the guy’s face anymore, but he has a feeling that soft expression he’d caught a glimpse of before it turned to discomfort is back.

Stiles sidles up to him and sticks his fingers through Dickwad’s cage. For once the cat doesn’t hiss or bite him; she only licks his hand and goes back to meowing at Murder Face.

At least it seems Sexy Pants— _Murder Face_ , is a calming influence on the cat.

“You sure this little furball fits the bill?”

Sexy Face tenses, like he hadn’t realized that Stiles had gotten so close. He relaxes a little when Dickwad rubs against his fingers, a small smile pushing at the corner of his mouth before he shoves it back down behind his constipated expression.

“Yeah,” he says finally. “I’m sure.”

“Alright then, Mr. Murder Face, why don’t you follow me up to the front so we can fill out the adoption form and you and Di- I mean, this little lady can go home.”

“It’s Derek,” the guy growls irritably.

Stiles snorts softly, pulling out the adoption form and grabbing a pen. “You got a last name to go with that,” he asks, tone dry.

Murder Face – _Derek –_ scratches his jaw, expression wary. “Hale.”

Stiles nods and jots it down.

There isn’t much to the paperwork. Stiles explains her care regimen, her preferred brand of food (because she’s a picky little princess), the best place to get a litter box and such, foods cats can and cannot eat, lets him know she’s up to date on her shots and when he should bring her back in, underlines the clinic’s number in case Derek needs to bring her in for any reason at all.

By the end of his spiel, Derek is starting to look a little overwhelmed.

“You got all that?” Stiles asks, not even trying to hide his amusement. Derek hesitates. “Need me to write it down?”

Derek glares at him defensively. “No.” He sounds unsure.

Stiles huffs a small laugh and pulls a pad of blank post-its toward him. “How ‘bout I give you my number,” he says, already writing it down, “and you call me if you have any questions.”

He rips the post-it off and holds it out expectantly.

Derek looks…lost.

“Come on, man; just take it,” Stiles presses, “‘Cause as much as I’d love to stay here with you all day, going over this shit, I really don’t have the time. Scott’s gonna be back soon to take over, and I have to go home and take a very important nap.”

Derek nods slowly, and grabs the edge of the note, careful not to touch Stiles. It has a very dude-bro, no homo feel to it.

Stiles struggles not to roll his eyes.

“Let me go get a temporary carrier, and you’ll be all set.”

Stiles leaves him at the desk, and heads back to the cat room to grab the collapsible box and kitten. She’s startlingly compliant for a cat that had once yowled at him for half an hour straight because he’d had the audacity to try and refill her water bowl.

“See ya around, Dickwad,” Stiles murmurs into her fur before putting her in the carrying box for her new owner.

When he straightens to hand her over to Derek Hale of Clan Murder Face, his eyebrows are quirked in judgment. Stiles resists the urge to touch his face and see if anything is amiss.

“What,” he asks self-consciously.

“Dickwad?” Murder Face repeats flatly.

“I was talking to the cat,” Stiles huffs. “It’s my nickname for her, okay. We have a very deep, complicated bond; you wouldn’t understand.”

Derek blinks at him, expression blank. “Right. Um. Okay.”

And on that awkward note, he slides his obnoxiously cool sunglasses on his face and all but runs away with his newly acquired kitten.

“Have a nice day. You’re welcome,” Stiles grumbles to the swinging door.

Another satisfied customer.

Stiles sighs and goes back to work, refusing to let the slightly aggravating encounter get to him. With any luck, he’ll never hear from that guy again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you guys were so kind with your comments and free with your kudos that I decided to post the next one way ahead of schedule love u bye

A few days later, he’s on his way home from work when his phone starts ringing. He hits accept, putting the call on speaker.

“Pop, I don’t care what you say, I’m not going back in tonight. You can tell Parrish he can handle my paperwork if he feels the need, hint, hint,” he adds.

“ _Uh, is this_ _Stiles?”_ the person on the other line, who is almost definitely not his father, says.

“Well, you’re not my dad,” he says brilliantly.

“ _No, it’s Derek.”_

Stiles swerves to avoid going off the road and nearly ends up hitting a telephone pole.

So much for never hearing from him again. Fuck, why did he think it was a good idea to give the hot, angry guy his number?

He composes himself.

“Oh, hey, Mr. Murder Face,” he says, mock-cheerful. “How can I help you today?”

“ _That’s not my— never mind. It’s the cat,”_ Derek says, sounding panicked. _“She won’t get out of the_ fucking—” this part sounds further, like he’s turned away to yell at the little troublemaker, _“—tree.”_

Stiles stifles a laugh. “Aren’t you supposed to call, like, the fire department for that?” Not that he’s actually recommending this course of action; the rivalry between cops and firefighters is an old one and Stiles isn’t trying to be the one to bridge that gap, okay? He’s just tired and doesn’t really want to deal with this guy today.

“ _You said to call you if I needed help,”_ Derek reminds him exasperatedly.

And hell, he had said that, hadn’t he.

Stiles huffs, pouting a bit. He’d really been looking forward to having some quality time with his bed.

“ _Hello?”_ Derek says, this time low and tentative. It’s almost adorable, how worried he sounds.

Stiles chews on his lip, considering his options. On the one hand, it would probably be another hour, at least, before he saw his bed. On the other, there’s no way he can back out of this without looking like a dick.

“ _Please.”_

And an evening with Murder Face wins out.

Stiles sighs. “Jesus, fine. Give me your address; I’ll be right there.”

-

‘Right there’ turns out to be twenty-five minutes and three wrong turns later because Derek Hale of Clan Murder Face lives out in the middle of buttfuck nowhere – with a three mile-long driveway to boot. The sight of Derek’s massive, multi-tiered house isn’t helping him feel any more kindly toward the guy. It’s lush and well-maintained and Stiles is so busy gaping at it that he almost runs over its’ owner.

Stiles stomps on the brakes, heart beating wildly and breaths coming in short bursts. Derek doesn’t seem equally concerned.

“What took you so long?” he demands. The aggravation in his tone is at odds with the relief in his eyes.

Stiles throws the jeep in park, irritated by the lack of gratitude he’s getting here. “Well, maybe if you lived anywhere close to civilization or, I don’t know, _street signs,_ it wouldn’t have taken me so long to find your creepy little house in the woods,” he shoots back as he fights to free himself from his seat belt. Damn thing started sticking around the time he finished college. His dad keeps telling him it’s time to upgrade, but they both know the likelihood of that happening is low. Anyone who knows Stiles knows he has trouble letting things go.

Derek folds his arms over his chest. “My house isn’t creepy,” he says. “Or little.”

“Modesty is a virtue, Derek,” Stiles grunts, finally working the damn belt off and exiting his vehicle with a sound of disgust.

“I thought you worked at the animal shelter,” Derek says, looking confused at the sight of Stiles in uniform.

Stiles glances down at himself. “I guess you could say I was moonlighting,” he replies, which is hilarious because of werewolves. Derek doesn’t seem to find him amusing, which Stiles is choosing to believe is because he doesn’t get it and not him just being an enormous sourpuss.

“So, uh, where is our little demon seed,” Stiles asks, rubbing his hands together and glancing around.

Derek jerks his head towards one of the massive trees to his left and Stiles spots her, lazing about on a branch about twenty feet up, tail swishing contentedly.

Stiles can sense her smugness from where he’s standing.

“She seems pretty happy up there,” he says, squinting up at her.

“I’d be happier if she weren’t.”

Stiles circles the tree, sizing up his approach.

“Well, as great as I am at tree climbing, I think we’d be better off using a ladder to get to her. I’m assuming you have one somewhere around your _big_ , not-at-all creepy house?”

Derek flushes. “I think I saw one in the shed in the back.”

Stiles stares at him, waiting.

“What,” Derek asks self-consciously.

“If you could go get it now, that’d be great,” Stiles responds, tone only a little patronizing.

Derek narrows his eyes, but leaves without further comment.

Stiles sighs, keeping one eye closed as he dejectedly watches Dickwad sunbathe.

“You just had to stir up some trouble, didn’t you?” he asks her. She blinks her eyes at him, silently judging.

Derek comes back carrying a huge ladder in his hand, balancing it effortlessly so that it barely shifts as he walks. He leans it against the tree gently, careful not to spook the kitty.

Stiles rubs his hands together. “Okay, so maybe you can borrow my jacket? It’s fitted at the bottom, so you could tuck her in it without worrying too much about her falling to her death on the climb back down,” he explains to Derek’s furrowed eyebrows.

“Wait, why am I going up there?”

Stiles screws up his face. “Uh, because she’s your cat?”

“You gave her to me,” Derek fires back, as if Stiles wasn’t simply doing his job.

“What, are you scared of heights?”

“Are you?” Derek snaps, ears turning an angry pink.

Oh, Christ. They could argue for days.

Stiles pushes past Derek and zips up his work jacket. “Fine, _I’ll_ do it. Just keep the damn ladder steady, you big pu—”

“Stiles,” Derek warns.

“—scared-y cat,” Stiles says instead.

“I swear to God.”

Stiles shoots a grin down at him; he’s about ten feet up now. “What? Too close to home?”

“Just focus on what you’re doing,” Derek says.

“Sure thing,” Stiles mutters, throwing in a hushed, “fucker,” just to be petty.

“Heard that,” Derek growls. He shakes the ladder just once, a clear threat.

“ _How?”_ Stiles does not whine, clinging to the railing like his life depends on it. Which it might, if he keeps insulting Derek.

Derek smiles up at him wolfishly. It is not at all attractive. Stiles puts all his attention into the task at hand instead of bickering with the overgrown child below him, and manages to make it the last few steps without further incident.

“Heya, Dickwad,” Stiles greets her cheerfully. “Enjoying your nap?”

The kitten cracks a blue eye open and yawns at him, unconcerned.

_“That’s not her name.”_

“Hey, when you climb your ass up a thirty-foot ladder for her, you can complain about what I call the damn cat,” Stiles yells down.

Derek grumbles something, too low for him to hear, but almost certainly not complimentary.

Stiles rolls his eyes at the cat, commiserating. “Look, mind if we go back down now? Your dad’s kind of freaking out over here.”

The cat licks her snout and closes her eye. Stiles takes it as a ‘yes.’

He tucks her into the jacket and begins his slow and careful descent. It’s all coming along swimmingly: the kitten isn’t clawing through his abdomen nor is she trying to break free. In fact, she seems pretty pleased with herself, if the lawnmower purrs he can feel through his shirt are any indication. Also on the positive side: Stiles has yet to fall to his death.

Of course, Derek has to go and ruin his sense of accomplishment. With less than four steps to go, the lumbering idiot impatiently grabs him by the waist, lifts him like he doesn’t weigh a thing, and sets him on the ground. And Stiles is not light, okay. Gone are the days where he was a scrawny little beanpole. He’s been steadily building muscle for the past decade, both from running around with the pack and on the job.

Stiles flushes and smacks at Derek’s grabby hands. His grabby, huge, warm hands and his thick, strong fingers and—Christ, Stiles needs to stop that train of thought before things get really awkward.

“Hey,” Stiles says loudly, trying to block out his verging-on-inappropriate thoughts. “No touchy.”

At which point Derek starts struggling with the zipper on his jacket, trying to free his cat.

“God, impatient,” Stiles grumbles. He pushes Derek’s nice, fumbling fingers out of the way and unzips it himself. He fishes the kitten out of his jacket before Derek tackles him to the ground and eats him alive.

If only.

Stiles shelves the bad thoughts for a later time and puts her into Derek’s pleasantly hairy hands.

Don’t judge him. It’s been a while.

“See, she’s fine,” Stiles sighs.

Derek doesn’t seem to trust this consensus. He looks her over, checking her snow-white coat for signs of injury and burying his face in it when he finds none.

“Dammit, Marie,” Derek mumbles into her fur, taking a deep, calming breath. The cat purrs, looking at Stiles through smug, contented eyes.

Stiles blinks, mouth dropping open. “What?”

“What?” Derek repeats, defensive.

“What did you name her?”

Derek’s expression closes off. “Nothing. Thank you for your help.”

Stiles could push the point and turn this into another argument, but with the afternoon he’d had, chasing down a low-level dealer through midday traffic on foot? He just wants to go home, bury himself under fifty blankets and go to sleep.

“Just doing my duty,” Stiles says, and then fights back a snicker because he’s a child. “See ya later, Derek. Bye, _Marie,”_ he adds, shooting Derek a smirk. “And remember, ‘ladies don’t start fights, but they can finish them.’ _”_ He scritches his fingers through the fur on top of her head and ignores the mortified glare her human is aiming at his face.

She pushes her nose into his palm and chirps once. Probably her way of saying, fuck off, loser. Stiles hops back into the jeep and buckles up. Derek carries the cat back into his big, creepy house, ears bright red.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> everybody wants to be a cat  
> because a cat's the only cat who knoooows where it's at


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jeez u guys are being awesome  
> here's another one hope u like love u

The next morning, Stiles shows up for work half an hour late and as a result, is left to rifle through the bottom of the barrel donuts. He’s talking a long-john with half its sprinkles missing and a jelly-glazed with what are probably Greenberg’s fingerprints all over it.

“I wouldn’t,” Boyd comments, coming into the break room to refill on coffee.

Stiles sighs. “Greenberg?”

“And Parrish. He licked the sprinkles off the one Greenberg didn’t shove his finger in and half the office is taking bets on which one you’ll pick.”

Stiles resignedly drops the long john and rubs his hand clean on his shirt. He hears a chorus of groans from a row of suspiciously empty desks just beyond the lounge and feels a wave of true affection for Boyd.

Stiles gives him an appreciative grin and reaches over to clap him on the shoulder. “Gonna be honest: if you hadn’t said anything, I definitely would have probably eaten both.”

“Why do you think I’m telling you,” Boyd responds drily, “Greenberg is bad enough, but Parrish? Wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.”

Stiles snorts and hears a bark of laughter that sounds like it came from Reyes join him.

Boyd puts the lid back on his coffee and motions for Stiles to follow him. “Sheriff’s waiting, by the way. Think we actually got something useful out of that guy you ran down yesterday.”

At least some good came out of the aching of his feet and shoulder from where he’d forcibly taken the guy down in the middle of Main Street. He hadn’t felt the latter until he’d woke this morning and had to literally wiggle out of bed to avoid jostling his arm. It’s doing better with the Tylenol he’d taken, though.

Stiles snags one of Parrish’s cold caramel coffees out of fridge, ignoring an outraged, _“hey,”_ and the sound of more laughter, and follows Boyd to his dad’s office.

“I feel like such a stereotype saying this, but I really need to start picking up my own box of donuts and just keep it in my car, and I’m not sharing with no one, Boyd. No one, you hear me? Animals, all of them.”

“I saved you a fritter.”

Stiles slings an arm around his waist and half-burrows into his broad chest. “No one but you, Vernon Ulysses Boyd.”

Boyd pats him on the head with a sigh, signalling Parrish and Reyes over, “You know that’s not my middle name, Stiles.”

Stiles nods happily. “You’re my favorite, you know that?”

“I know.” And then Boyd frowns and eyes him, nose wrinkled. “You smell like cat, and…weird.”

Shit, maybe he should’ve washed his jacket? Stiles backs away from Boyd with an odd laugh, tugging at his jacket zipper until it hits his throat. “I do work at an animal shelter, as you know. And also, it’s not nice, or even normal, to comment on someone’s scent. People don’t just walk up to other people and go, hey, by the way, you smell weird.”

Boyd stops just outside of his father’s office and turns to study him.

Stiles has been around werewolves for basically his entire life. People commenting on his scent is an entirely normal practice, which he and Boyd both know, but Stiles tends to word-vomit when he’s nervous, which Boyd also knows, which means Boyd has undoubtedly put together that there’s something to be nervous _about._

Stiles can feel his flush working up to a full-on fire on his face and sends a quick prayer up to every God he knows that he just straight up keels over.

“Okay,” Boyd says simply. He turns on his heel and disappears inside.

“Nice little drink you got there.”

Parrish hip-checks him on the way into the sheriff’s office. Reyes pinches his butt.

“I’m telling Boyd,” Stiles tells her.

“He doesn’t care,” she says just as Boyd says, “I don’t care.” A true match made in heaven.

Stiles fumbles the screw top cap from his pilfered coffee and chugs half of it while he tries to convince himself he has nothing to worry about. He’s allowed to keep some things to himself. The pack doesn’t need to be alerted every time he meets someone new. And super hot. Like, sheesh. Derek might have the social skills of a person raised in an attic, but the dude is crazy bangable.

Is that gross? He might need to think on objectification.

“Stiles?”

His father is peering at him over his computer monitor.

Stiles coughs, and lifts the coffee in greeting.

“What the hell are you standing around out there for?” his father asks.

“I like the view?” Stiles offers weakly. The view is a hallway.

“Come in and shut the door, kid.”

Only his father could look at him, a twenty-eight year old, decorated police officer, and still address him as ‘kid.’ Stiles exhales heavily, steps into his dad’s office and lets the door slide closed.

-

His phone screeches in his shirt pocket. He pulls it out and accepts the call without checking the ID.

“Stilinski,” Stiles answers.

There’s a brief pause, and then, _“Your last name is Stilinski?”_ Derek asks, wondering. _“Stiles_ Stilinski?”

“It’s a nickname,” Stiles replies tersely. “What can I do for you, Hale?”

He’s not really in the mood, but then, getting shot at always puts a damper on things. Getting clipped in the shoulder and then getting yelled at by his boss – who is also his father – about being shot while getting treated by his step-mom, who is as equally yell-y as his boss/father? Yeah, he’s had better days.

Derek sounds uncertain when he speaks again, almost tentative. _“Sorry. You probably have other things going on. I’ll stop bothering you.”_

“No, just—” Stiles sighs, trying to expel some of the tension in his spine. “Just a long day. Seriously, what do you need? Is everything okay with Marie?”

“ _That’s why I’m calling.”_

Stiles hits a red light and slouches. “Tree again?”

“ _Sorry,”_ Derek confirms.

“Be there in ten.”

-

Derek has, thoughtfully, already brought out the ladder for him by the time Stiles pulls up, though he’s nowhere in sight.

Stiles gingerly puts on his work jacket and awkwardly clambers up the ladder, trying not to jostle his arm too much. Maybe he should just be glad it’s the same one he’d injured taking down that dealer. The pain is all centralized to one limb.

“Hey, kitty,” he croons, finally reaching Marie on the same exact branch he’d gotten her down from last time. She stands and stretches, yawning wide. “Have a nice cat nap?” he asks, chuckling at his own lame joke.

Marie sits back on her haunches and blinks at him judgmentally.

“Yeah, yeah, no one thinks I’m funny. Come here.” He scoops the cat into his jacket.

He hears a low curse and quickly approaching footsteps. “You could’ve waited.”

“I could have,” Stiles agrees, slowly making his way back down.

Derek grabs him off the fourth step again. Stiles only half-heartedly complains. He’s tired. It wasn’t that much of a climb, but he’s exhausted and hungry and annoyed and it feels good being picked up like he weighs nothing, having strong hands burning through his thin undershirt where his coat rides up.

Derek paws at his jacket, working the zipper free himself this time. Stiles is too tired to protest. And again, feels nice. He tries to fish the cat out, but she slips around, trying to burrow deeper into Stiles’ jacket and hooking her claws into his skin when Derek gets a hold of her.

“Ow, ow, _ow!_ Goddammit, stop,” Stiles hisses, knocking Derek’s hands away. Derek’s eyes widen in surprise. Stiles grabs the cat himself and _peels_ her from his flesh.

Derek looks sheepish. “Sorry, I didn’t—”

Stiles rolls his shoulder, testing the stitches. It’s not too bad. He doesn’t think he popped any, at least. “Yeah, I know. It’s not your fault. Except for, y’know, how it is because you can’t seem to keep her from escaping your house.”

Derek holds Marie close to his chest like she’s precious, and not a demonic little monster.

“She’s a free spirit.”

“Well, she’s about to be an actual spirit _,_ because I’m not going up that fucking tree again.” It doesn’t sound half as witty as it had in his head. He’s too tired to care. “Next time you’re on your own.”

Derek’s mouth falls open the smallest bit and Stiles gets caught up staring at his perfect, annoying bunny teeth. He might stare a little too long, because Derek’s eyes start darting around, throat working as he swallows uncomfortably.

Stiles takes off in a huff, aggravated with himself for finding such a beautiful, repressed asshole to get himself a crush on.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> u guys are great, seriously

Derek calls twice more before the weeks over and again on Monday.

“Is this gonna be a normal thing?” Stiles wonders on Thursday, handing Marie off while she nips at his fingers.

“I really hope not,” Derek mutters, glaring at his cat, even as he strokes a gentle hand down her spine.

It stings a little. Maybe it’s just that it’s the end of another shitty day of dealing with shitty people and that his shoulder’s aching and his stomach’s empty, but Stiles finds himself feeling insulted.

“Yeah, well I’m sorry it’s such a pain in the ass for you to have to deal with me for an entire ten minutes while I do you a favor. Meanwhile, I’ve been shot at three separate times this week, one of which ended up with my step-mom having to stitch my arm up, thank you very much, and yet I still make time to come here, after working seventy hours a week at two jobs, all because you’re too much of a chicken shit to climb that damn ladder yourself. Excuse me.” He pushes past Derek, making an angry beeline for the jeep.

Derek stops at his window as he puts the car into first. “That’s not what I meant...”

“Yeah, I know what you meant,” Stiles snaps. “I see how you look at me.”

Derek’s mouth snaps closed, face flushing all the way to his ears and down his neck.

“You don’t like me,” Stiles says, “And that’s fine; not everyone has good taste. But you don’t have to be an asshole when someone’s just trying to help you out.”

Derek stutters something that sounds like the beginning of an excuse or an apology.

“Yeah, whatever. It’s always a pleasure. Glad I could help.”

“Wait—”

Stiles goes home.

-

He feels better after a bacon burger and fries and a solid ten hours of blissful unconsciousness. Luckily for him it’s his day off and he can actually go back to sleep if he wants to, and since he lives alone, there’s no one around to tell him he can’t.

Alas, more sleep is not in the cards for him. Someone knocks on his door just as he’s settling in for round two, and Stiles grumpily crawls out of bed and pulls on a pair of sweats to answer it. Another knock. Apparently, he isn’t moving fast enough.

“Yeah, yeah, hold your goddamn horses,” he mutters, assuming it’s Scott or his dad because who the hell else is gonna visit him on a Friday morning? He pulls the door open, already glaring at the person responsible for interrupting his beauty coma.

His eyes widen in surprise. Derek is standing on his stoop, holding a container.

He opens his mouth to speak, and then freezes upon seeing Stiles in all of his half-naked glory.

“Uh,” Stiles says eloquently.

Derek jerks his gaze away from Stiles’ scarred chest and thrusts the plastic bowl at him.

Stiles grabs it and cautiously cracks it open. Whatever’s in it smells amazing. “What’s this?”

“Me apologizing for being a dick.”

Stiles eyes him, unimpressed. “Couldn’t just say it?”

“This is better, trust me.”

Irritation flares.

Stiles hands it back and crosses his arms. Derek frowns down at the bowl.

“That all?” Stiles asks.

Derek doesn’t respond immediately.

Stiles says, “Okay then,” and steps back to close the door.

It’s probably better this way, anyway. The guy is obviously an asshole, probably stemmed from his attractiveness and having no need to form manners or social skills because he could skate by on his looks. Or he just genuinely doesn’t like Stiles, which is also understandable.

Stiles is fumbling around the kitchen, trying to make coffee and cursing himself for being so morally superior as his stomach rumbles. He should’ve at least taken whatever was in the container. His mouth waters, remembering that heavenly scent.

His door bursts open and Stiles startles, reaching for a knife out of the dish rack and flinging it towards the intruder.

“It’s just me,” Derek says, knife caught gracefully between his thumb and forefinger. “You didn’t lock the door.”

“Jesus, Derek. You can’t just _walk_ into someone’s house. That’s how people get stabbed.”

“I think I would’ve been alright,” Derek says wryly. “This is a butter knife.”

Stiles glances at it and curses.

Derek huffs a laugh. Stiles glares at him until the amusement peters out, giving way to something like regret.

“Look, I’m sorry, okay? I am. I’m not good with people. I just- I could say that I didn’t know I was being an asshole, but I did. And it’s not because I don’t like you, I swear.”

“Then why?”

“Maybe I was hoping you’d stay away.” Stiles blinks. Wow. Moderately less insulting. Derek glances away, talking more to the floor now, suddenly shy, “Maybe it’s because I do like you, and I’m not used to that.”

Stiles warms down to his toes.

“Anyways, these are for you,” Derek says, cheeks and ears thoroughly flushed. He sets the bag on the counter separating them and backs away. “I’m sorry, again. Really. Thanks for coming and helping me out so much these past few weeks. Promise I won’t bother you again,” he adds with a smile that’s so pretty and sad Stiles feels it like a stab to the gut.

He snorts. “Liar. Who the hell else is gonna help you with that damn cat?”

“I’ll figure it out. We’ve been relying on you too much as it is.” Derek gives him a look he can’t decipher and then smiles again. “See you around, Stiles.”

Stiles stops him just as he’s about to leave. “Hey, uh, wait.”

Derek pauses.

“You want some coffee?”

Derek closes the door.

-

Derek had made him muffins. A lot of muffins. Apparently, he’s a guilt-baker. Stiles had no idea that was a thing. The muffins aren’t the prettiest thing, all lumpy and uneven, but they taste even better than they smell.

“So, just wondering,” Stiles begins through a mouthful of almond and poppy-seed, “Why the fuck do you live all the way out in the boonies?”

Derek fidgets with the handle of of his coffee cup. “It was one of my grandparents’ properties. No one was using it, so I asked my mom if I could stay a while.”

“Ah, rich kid. Things are suddenly so much clearer.”

Derek flushes, or more specifically, his ears, but he doesn’t correct the assumption. He switches the topic.

“I didn’t know you got shot. That explains the bl—” Derek cuts himself off.

“That explains what?”

“The hole in your jacket,” he says, sticking his finger in Stiles’ coat. Stiles had grabbed it off the couch after serving Derek a cup of coffee, feeling weird about standing around, half naked and not really trusting Derek not to bolt if he were left alone long enough for Stiles to grab clothes. Luckily, the blood hadn’t stained it too bad, his uniform taking the brunt of it. His father still wants him to order a new one.

Derek pulls his finger back quickly, probably realizing it’s not exactly a normal thing to do, putting your finger inside the clothing of someone you barely know. He takes a sip of coffee, avoiding eye contact.

Stiles hides a laugh.

“So, what’s it like, living separate from civilization.”

“I live ten minutes outside of town,” Derek says flatly.

Stiles regards him through narrowed eyes. “So you’re denying being a hermit.”

Derek sets the mug down with a sigh. “Not a hermit.”

“So you go places,” Stiles presses.

Derek is silent.

“Do people visit you?”

Nothing.

“Do you visit people? Family? Friends?”

“Christ, you sound like my sisters.”

“Do you even go into town to get groceries?”

Derek mumbles something about the convenience of the internet and having groceries delivered.

“Oh, so you’re a hermit in denial,” Stiles comments brightly. “That seems better somehow.” He buries a laugh in his coffee cup at Derek’s expression.

Derek tips his mug, finishing it off in one go, sets it down and says, “Thanks for the coffee. I’m leaving now.”

“No, wait!” Stiles calls after him, “I still haven’t heard your broody origin story yet! No one that pretty keeps themselves that far away from civilization without a reason.”

Derek flounders for a second, not seeming to know how to respond to either the statement in general or, more likely, Stiles calling him pretty if the redness of his ears is any indication.

He eventually huffs a weird laugh and says, “And you’re not going to today. I’ll see you around, Stiles.”

He leaves before Stiles thinks to ask how he knew where he lives.

-

Stiles takes the rest of the muffins in to the station. Regretfully, he knows he won’t be able to finish them all before they start to turn, and believe him, he’s tried. His coworkers are on them like vultures, clearing out the bowl within minutes.

“Did you make these?” Reyes asks suspiciously. “They’re delicious.”

“I did not.”

“Where’d you get them?” Jordan asks.

“Can’t reveal my sources, sorry.”

Boyd sniffs his muffin, looking toward Stiles thoughtfully. He flushes and takes the empty container back to his desk, starting on paperwork to avoid a conversation he’s not ready for.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was wondering why ppl kept asking if i was gonna add more. i was like wtf of course isn't it obv lmao but then i realized i didn't fix the chapter count bc im a moron. ao3 should just learn to anticipate what im thinking and adjust accordingly tbh
> 
> jk sorry i suck

The next day, he’s patrolling the park when he sees a familiar madman doing laps on the track. It’s four AM, which means it’s completely empty. Stiles pulls up to the curb and waits for Derek to come back around to his side. He spots Stiles and waves.

Stiles rolls down the passenger window and waves back.

“Oh, hello, Officer, didn’t expect to see you here.”

The delivery leaves Stiles suspicious. Like maybe Derek _had_ expected to see him there, and is just trying to make a point. And Stiles has a feeling he knows exactly which point Derek is trying to prove.

“Doesn’t count as being out in civilization if there’s no one around, Derek.”

Derek jogs up to the passenger side of the cruiser, leaning down to talk to him through the open window. “Why not? I could be accosted with unwanted small talk by people I’ve never met at any time.”

Wait, was that an actual joke? The end is nigh. “You’re ridiculous.”

Derek looks pleased with himself.

Stiles eyes him suspiciously. “How’d you know I’d be out here, anyway?”

“What makes you think—”

“Really?”

Derek ducks his head like a puppy that’s been caught chewing up the furniture. “Okay, I might’ve heard you grumbling to Marie about having to cover the ‘stupidly early’ shift all week for someone named Greenberg the other day.”

Ah, yes, he vaguely remembers throwing that around during one of his failed attempts to _guilt_ the cat out of the tree.

“Nosy. That was a private conversation. I’m an officer of the law, I could have you arrested.”

“You could try. Pretty sure I could outrun you.”

Stiles pats the door of his cruiser. “That’s what this baby is for. Who’s to say I won’t just mow you down?” The joys of casually exchanging death threats with a local citizen. Protect and serve, that’s his motto.

“Glad to see our tax dollars are hard at work.”

“Like you’ve ever paid a single cent toward taxes in your life, Richie Rich.”

They mock-glare at each other for a moment until they’re both suppressing laughter.

Derek throws a quick glance behind him before fixing Stiles with a somewhat nervous look. “I could use a pick me up. Wanna take me to get some coffee?”

Stiles unlocks the car doors.

-

They sit in Stiles’ cruiser, two cups of coffee and a half-dozen donuts on the dash, and Stiles enthralls Derek with tales of some of the many altercations he’s been involved in in the line of duty.

During a particularly amusing one about the would-be bank robber that tried to hold up the local A&E – with a Nerf sword, while very high on mushrooms – Derek laughs so hard he accidentally spits his coffee out all over Stiles’ windshield.

Stiles cracks up. “Dude.”

“Oh, shit, I’m sorry,” Derek digs around, looking for something to wipe the mess down with and comes up with the handful of napkins that came with the donuts. He manages to get the windshield clean, kinda, there’s a little bit of a foggy sheen on it, but that’s about it. Derek pops open the glove compartment and rifles through the contents.

“It’s okay, I’ll take care of it,” Stiles insists, still laughing.

“Don’t you have anything else?”

“Nah, I usually just wipe my hands on my shirt,” Stiles says with a shrug.

Derek gives him a look that says he shouldn’t admit that as freely as he just did. “We can’t just leave it like this,” Derek says, gesturing to the coffee-flecked dashboard.

“Greenberg owes me a favor after making me be alive this early. I’ll just have him detail the car.”

Derek sighs at him in obvious disappointment. And then he strips off his shirt.

“Uh,” Stiles says dumbly.

Because wow, wow, wow. He wants to go back in time and high five himself for giving his number to the hot guy because damn.

Derek begins to wipe down the dashboard, the console, movements methodical. Stiles’ thoughts take a bad turn when when Derek polishes off the gear shift and he politely glances away.

“Oh, hey. Looks like you got caught in the crossfire, too,” Derek jokes. He momentarily stiffens when Derek brushes his thumb against a spot on his cheek, and then another at the edge of his jaw.

They stare at each other.

Two heavy hands thump down on the hood of his cruiser and they both jump, hastily putting space between them.

“This looks mighty close to solicitation, Officer.”

Stiles rolls his eyes.

Danny Mahealani, fellow police officer and ruiner of possible moments, is leaning over the car, watching them with a delighted yet somehow vindictive expression.

“Danny, you freak of nature,” Stiles mutters under his breath. He should’ve remembered that this was about the time Danny did his mini-marathon through town.

Danny approaches his window and squats. “Aren’t you gonna introduce me to your friend?” he asks, innocently batting his eyelashes.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Derek, this is Officer Mahealani. Daniel, this is my buddy, Derek. We had a little bit of a spill and Derek had to use his shirt to clean it up, that’s all.”

“Because, of course, you never keep napkins or wet wipes in your cars,” Danny smirks. “I remember.”

Stiles blushes at the tone. Did he mention that they used to fuck? Like, a lot.

Derek seems to have picked up on the not-so-subtle reminder. He avoids eye contact as he folds and drapes his sullied shirt over his shoulder.

“Just thought I’d offer a reminder that people can see you,” Danny says, straightening and stretching. “Because that is a windshield and not a wall.”

Stiles fakes a laugh and then silently fumes.

Danny winks. “Nice to meet you, Derek.” Derek offers a slight nod of acknowledgment. Danny smirks at Stiles. “Officer.”

“Danny,” Stiles growls.

Danny gives him a mocking salute and continues on his way.

“What an ass,” Stiles mutters, watching him jog off into the sunrise, grudgingly admiring his form. Objectively, Stiles knows he should think about steadily taking up jogging or running, given his line of work, but honestly, he’d rather sit on a cactus.

Derek is watching him gaze after Danny thoughtfully, his own expression discernible. “I should go.”

“Let me drop you off,” Stiles says quickly. “You shouldn’t run so much anyway. It’s not good for you.”

Derek doesn’t so much as crack a smile at his lame joke. “That’s okay. I wanted to get a few more laps in before I head back.”

Stiles tries to hide his disappointment. “Alright. See you around?”

Derek gives him a short nod and takes off.

-

Derek calls just around the time he’s about to clock out.

“Marie?”

“Sorry,” Derek mumbles.

“Be there in a minute.”

Derek is waiting on the front steps when Stiles pulls up half an hour later.

“Sorry it took so long, got caught up arguing with one of my buddies about whose turn it is to DD at the annual Firehouse Fundraiser next week. This year they’re raising money for a new in-house gym.” His father forces the department to attend as a sign of good will and it’s stupid, but most of the deputies use it as an opportunity to get shitfaced on the firefighters’ dime. These events usually have an open bar, which helps when loosening up the wallets of their more frugal patrons as most money is made in donations.

Derek waves him off. “It’s fine. Thanks for coming. I know you’re probably tired.”

“Like you wouldn’t believe.”

He teeters halfway down the ladder, Marie safely cradled under his armpit, and Derek curses.

“Sorry. Sorry. Just a little light headed.” He probably shouldn’t mention that he’d taken a blow to the head, courtesy of Mrs. Malone after she’d mistaken him for a petty thief when he’d only been trying to help her cross the street. She’s getting on in years and her hearing’s been going for a while.

Stiles had tried to remember that as she swung on him with her brick-laden handbag for a full minute while he’d attempted to remind her who he was.

Derek catches him early and puts him down on the ground. Stiles is choosing to blame the exhaustion when he leans back into Derek’s chest and sags for a moment.

“You smell tired,” Derek murmurs.

Stiles blinks. “What?”

“Look tired, sorry. You smell—”

“Bad?” Stiles offers, not even caring. The power had gone out near the elementary school and he’d spent half his day directing traffic until the lights came back on, hence the sidewalk beating he’d received from little old Mrs. Malone. It’s fall, but it’s still pretty hot out there during the afternoon. He blames Greenberg, whose shitty route he’s covering.

“Not at all, actually,” Derek says, barely audible. Stiles isn’t actually sure he didn’t imagine it.

He yawns widely and Derek latches onto his arm, gently tugging him toward the house.

“Let me make you some coffee.”

“Coffee,” Stiles drones.

“Can’t have my favorite deputy falling asleep at the wheel.”

“That wouldn’t be good,” Stiles agrees, secretly thrilling over the word ‘favorite.’ Christ, he’s basically a schoolgirl right now. At this rate, he’ll have to invest in a dream journal to put his and Derek’s initials all over.

-

Derek’s house is cozier than he’d expected. The couches are overstuffed, his fridge and pantry are bursting with food and everything is clean. Preternaturally clean, besides a few cat toys here and there. Stiles has a feeling Marie is the only one Derek would let get away with leaving any kind of mess in his home.

“You can sit down,” Derek tells him after he finishes nosing around his kitchen. “I’ll bring you your coffee.”

“Bless you,” Stiles offers weakly, already hobbling towards the sofa. He sinks into it like Leonardo in the Titanic, sighing appreciatively. He needs a couch like this. “I need this couch,” he informs Derek.

Derek snorts. “My sister does interior design. She picked everything out. I’ll tell her you like them.” Stiles files that information away as Derek puts a large mug in his hand. Stiles blinks at it hazily.

“Finished already?” he asks, amazed. He takes a tentative sip. “That’s amazing. I’m in love with this coffee.”

“Little milk and three sugars, right?”

Stiles stares. “How’d you know?”

Derek shrugs. “I watched you the other day.”

“Thanks,” Stiles says, touched that he’d remembered.

“Any time.” He looks like he means it.

-

Stiles drives home a few hours later, thinking of how red Derek’s face had gotten, the tears that had gathered at the corner of his eyes, as he laughed at Stiles’ story about Mrs. Malone and her deadly handbag.

He has a feeling Derek hasn’t laughed or talked so much in a long time. And God help him, Stiles wants to be the one that keeps making him laugh so hard he nearly cries. Stiles wants to get _know_ him. Like, for his _personality_. And not just for his angelic face and banging body.

He curses at himself for being such an idiot, vowing to get a handle on these feelings he’s having before it’s too late.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the wait, but if you've ever been invested in one of my works, you'll know this little (involuntary) break i took from writing is virtually nothing. still sorry. i edited this chapter a bit while posting, pls forgive mistakes. i'll fix them when i have the energy. thanks for still reading, love u
> 
> **pls note the rating change. don't wanna ambush anyone

“Well, look who it is.”

Stiles looks over his shoulder as he tosses the last of his groceries into the boot, pleased to see Derek jogging up to him, covered in a light sheen of sweat.

“Hey, bud. How’s it goin’? Out for a brisk walk, I see,” he comments, nodding toward Derek’s soaked shirt. He reaches back into the trunk and grabs a water out of the case he’d just bought, offering it to Derek.

Derek gives him a wry smile as he accepts the water. He guzzles down the entire thing before capping the bottle and squinting at the sun as if cellphone clocks don’t exist and he’s trying to gauge the time.

Stiles bets he is, the rugged mountain man.

“You just get off?” Derek asks.

And Stiles knows, of course he knows _,_ what Derek means, but his brain is an adolescent boy, stuck in the gutter 98 percent of the time. He decides to drag Derek down with him.

“Not yet, but I was really hoping to once I got home,” he says with a wink, turning to lean against the jeep to get a better look at Derek’s reddening ears. 

He laughs delightedly. “Couldn’t help myself, sorry.” Derek rolls his eyes and throws the empty bottle at him. Stiles manages to catch it and wags his finger at Derek disapprovingly. “Litterbugs go to hell, Derek.”

“So do assholes,” Derek grumbles, coming to stand next to him and taking a seat in the back of the jeep, right next to the water. He mops up the sweat on his forehead with the bottom of his shirt and giving Stiles a good view of his hairy chest and well-muscled belly.

Stiles blushes and forces himself to look elsewhere.

“But to answer your question, yes, I did just get off of work.”

“Was that so difficult?”

“Kind of,” Stiles admits. Derek knocks his knee into Stiles’ side with a quiet laugh.

“How’d you get all the way over here? Did you park your car somewhere nearby?” Stiles has a feeling he knows the answer before he asks, but the way Derek’s eyes slip away from his confirms it. “Jesus, tell me you didn’t run here all the way from your place. That’s, like, twenty miles, Derek,” he says exasperatedly.

“Twenty-six,” Derek corrects him.

Stiles gapes. “That’s a marathon, Derek. You’re not supposed to just run a marathon for no reason. I’m pretty sure it’s illegal. You have to do it for like sick kids or puppies.”

“I don’t think that’s accurate.”

Stiles begins to nod the way one does when one is bullshitting. “I think it is. I think I’m supposed to be giving you a ticket right now.”

“For what?”

“For public indecency, that’s what. Think of all the people whose feelings you’re hurting by merely existing.”

Derek laughs. “I think you’re exaggerating just a little, bud.”

“I’m really not. You’re the type of pretty that gives people hurt feelings just from looking at you. It’s unfair.”

He gets a full-faced flush for that one.

Stiles smiles wide, he can’t help it. There’s something so beautiful about seeing such a hulking, big muscly man get so riled up by an idle compliment.

“You’re trying to embarrass me, aren’t you?” Derek asks accusingly.

“One hundred percent, yes,” Stiles agrees.

Derek snorts, turning his face to hide his smile. Stiles sees it anyway in the gentle wrinkle of his eye and the lift of his cheek. Shit, he’s so screwed.

Derek peeks over at him, a little nervous.

“You mind giving me a ride back home? I know it’s a bit of a drive...”

Stiles waves him off. “I don’t mind. Just let me drop off my groceries first, I don’t want my ice cream to melt.”

“’Course not,” Derek agrees.

“Then I really would have to give you a ticket.” He smirks at the outraged noise Derek makes and bumps his elbow into Derek’s thigh, pushing off the back of the car. “You coming, or what? I can feel my cookies and cream turning to soup as we speak.”

“You can feel it, my ass,” Derek mutters, but he closes the trunk and gets in the jeep anyway.

-

“So, you and that Danny guy,” Derek says suddenly, as Stiles messes with the volume of the radio.

“What about him?”

“You used to— you dated him?”

Stiles laughs. “Not so much. We just had a lot of crazy, hot se—”

“Got it,” Derek cuts in flatly, and either he’s really not into hearing about two dudes who used to go to town on each other, or that’s a trickle of jealousy Stiles hears creeping into his tone.

“It was after I came back from college, before we started at the academy. I was bored, he was bored; he was gay and I’d just spent four years learning that I was also really into dudes,” he shrugs. “It didn’t last long. A couple months, maybe.”

Derek’s eyes had widened a bit, hearing Stiles speak so candidly about his sexual fluidity, but all he asks is, “Why?”

“Danny found a guy he actually liked, and I didn’t really mind because it wasn’t more than physical for me either.”

Derek nods, expression introspective. The rest of the ride to Stiles’ place is quiet. Stiles spends it afraid that he’s ruined whatever idea Derek had had of him. He pulls into his parking space and throws the jeep into park, hands gripping the wheel a little snugly with the beginnings of agitation.

“If you wanna wait here, I’ll just take—”

Before he can finish the thought, Derek rolls his eyes and unhooks his seatbelt, hopping out of the car to stand, expectantly, beside the trunk until Stiles comes around to open it. He hooks a few bags, giving Derek the side eye as he also loads up.

“Thank you for the help, but I genuinely am able to carry my own groceries, so...”

Derek ignores him, grabs the majority of the bags and the case of water, and hauls them up the steps to Stiles’ apartment, skipping two or three stairs at a time.

“Jesus.” After a marathon, you’d think the man would slow down. Stiles grabs the remaining bag, slams the trunk shut and hurries after him to unlock the door.

Derek searches through his cupboards impatiently, figuring out where things go while Stiles unpacks the groceries and watches, floundering between confusion and amusement. It’s only fair, he supposes, with the way he’d rifled through every cupboard and drawer he could get his hands on in Derek’s kitchen.

He puts the water in the pantry and huffs a laugh as Derek squats in front of his fridge with a tub of parmesan in his hand, frowning. “Just let me hel—”

“I got it,” Derek insists.

Derek sets his last two cans of soup in the cupboard and rounds on Stiles with an intense expression.

Stiles takes a step back, thinking he’s been too obvious with his growing affection and Derek is about to tell him to fuck off or pummel him into a pulp, and quickly finds that he’s backed himself into the counter with nowhere to go.

“Sorry about this,” Derek says, and he takes Stiles’ face in his hands and presses their lips together. Stiles reacts without thinking, letting Derek’s soft mouth draw him in with an ease that Stiles has never really felt with anyone before. 

He ends it far too quickly, staring at Stiles with wide eyes. He looks like he’s just solved a really insane puzzle.

Stiles doesn't want to pressure him, but he reasons that if Derek wanted to, he could stop him at any time. Hell, Derek could probably literally hunt him down and rip him in half with his bare hands if he wanted to. He slowly pulls Derek back in for another kiss, carefully watching for any signs of reluctance.

Derek meets him half way.

It escalates fast. At first, just a tentative brush of the lips and then catching momentum until their bodies are pressed together, Derek’s hands in his hair and gripping the nape of his neck, Stiles’ tangled in his sweaty shirt. Stiles extracts one to rest it on the small of Derek’s back. 

Derek pulls away suddenly, and Stiles fights to keep a pathetic sound from escaping his throat.

“I’m not usually gay,” Derek blurts.

Stiles blinks and then laughs, releasing Derek’s shirt and rubbing the back of his head. Because, of course, he had to bag the thirty year old closet case. He always did know how to pick ‘em.

“Um. Wow, okay,” he says, trying to keep the disappointment from his voice. “Sorry.”

It’s probably his fault somehow. Everyone always told him he had trouble identifying which lines not to cross. He tries to step back and give Derek space before the gay panic can fully hit, but Derek doesn’t let him.

“I’m not,” Derek says, firm if not a bit nervous.

Stiles peeks up at him, cautious.

“I've never felt like this about a guy before,” Derek continues, slowly easing his body's weight back onto Stiles’, pressing him into the counter, “but I’ve wanted you since the moment I saw you.”

His disappointment fades, replaced by surprise. He dazedly recalls that first look from Derek and thinks that he really needs to work on his game face because Stiles had literally thought Derek wanted to murder him.

He lets Derek pull him back in. “I’m okay with that.”

Derek lets out a small breath, heavy with relief, pressing his nose into Stiles’ hairline.

“You sure you’re not gay, though? Not even a little?” Stiles mouths at his neck and Derek’s throat clicks.

“Maybe a little.”

Stiles nods. “I can work with that.”

He drags Derek’s lips back down to his.

-

An hour later, they’re on the couch hazily making out and Derek’s hands keep sneaking up the back of his shirt.

“Wanna see my bedroom?”

“Bedroom?” Derek echoes blearily, mouth as red as Stiles’ feels. He’d nearly forgotten the feel of stubble burn. It’s amazing. Derek is amazing.

“It’s really nice. Gots a big ol’ bed.”

Derek looks like he’s really considering it, but then he stiffens.

“We can’t,” he says, even as he grips Stiles tighter, brings him closer in his lap. “Too fast.”

“No, yeah. Of course,” Stiles agrees, nodding.

“I want to,” Derek admits, “Fuck, Stiles, you have no idea how much I want to.” Stiles believes him, he’s hard as diamonds, pressing into Stiles’ thigh. “But I wanna do it right. I don’t wanna mess this up.”

“Hey, hey.” Stiles pets the back of Derek’s head, grips the back of his neck. “We don’t have to. It’s okay.” Derek tilts his chin up, silently asking for another kiss. Stiles complies, but makes it brief, not wanting to push too far.

“I’m glad you understand,” Derek says, hand slipping down the back of Stiles’ pants and squeezing his ass in a way that doesn’t quite entertain the notion of stopping.

“Um, Derek,” Stiles manages while Derek stretches out his favorite t-shirt and sucks a mark into his shoulder. “Not that I mind, but _this,”_ he reaches around and puts his hand over Derek’s and helps him squeeze, just a little tighter, “-is not going to put the brakes on anything,”

“You’re right, you’re right.” Derek slides his other hand up Stiles’ shirt and paws at his chest.

Stiles’ back arches of its’ own volition. Damn, it’s been a while since he’s had anyone play with his nipples. Longer since anyone’s played with his ass, he thinks, noting how Derek’s fingers are inching closer and closer to—

“Fuck this,” Derek says, and he stands. Stiles is barely jostled as Derek lifts him and carries him towards his bedroom.

Derek sits on the edge of the bed, readjusting Stiles on his lap. Stiles decides that being manhandled is one of his new favorite things. He’s slept with a few people, but none that can move him around with the ease that Derek does. Not even Danny and his carefully sculpted biceps.

Stiles cups Derek’s jaw and presses their mouths back together. He tugs at the hem of Derek’s shirt until Derek gets the hint and lets Stiles pull it over his head. Derek does the same for him, though with a little less patience and a little more almost ripping Stiles’ shirt from his flesh.

“I’ve had that shirt since high school,” Stiles comments mildly.

Derek grimaces. “Sorry. Been a while.”

“There are worse ways to go,” Stiles says, pulling Derek’s lips back to his. They’re addicting, Derek’s kisses. Stiles could grow dependent if he’s not careful.

Stiles tugs at the edge of his belt. “Can I?”

Derek nods. “Please.”

Stiles smirks. “So polite.” Derek blushes and Stiles presses a kiss to his forehead, quietly reassuring.

Stiles gets him out with a great deal of fumbling. It takes longer than it should, but damn if it’s not worth it. Derek’s cock is fat and flushed, and Stiles wants it in his mouth.

He curses. “Christ. That’s a good dick, Derek.”

Derek’s ears turn a fiery red. “Thanks,” he mumbles, shy.

Stiles strokes his fist down Derek’s dick and mouths at his earlobe. Derek’s cock jerks, a fresh string of precome dribbling down the side.

Stiles readjusts himself, putting the urge to nut in his pants on the back burner. “No homo, but can I suck you off a little?”

Derek laughs weakly; Stiles grins. “Go for it.”

Immediately, Stiles slides from his lap and onto his knees, pushing Derek’s thighs apart to fit himself in between them. He wants to make this good, wants to make sure Derek doesn’t have to wonder whether he’s really into this or not.

He gets a hand on Derek’s dick, feels it twitching in his palm, the heat of it, his pulse racing. He presses his lips to the side it, licks a line from the crown to the tip and—

Derek grunts, the sound like it’s been knocked out of him, and Stiles jerks back in surprise, heat splashing against his cheek and nose.

Derek stares down at him, eyes wide and just as surprised, if not mildly horrified. And Stiles realizes that he came. From just Stiles’ hand and a little bit of tongue. He’d been so into it that he came in under a minute, under half, in _seconds_.

“Oh, no.” Stiles squeezes his eyes shut and thinks of bad things, awful things, roadkill and false teeth in a cup of water he’d been thinking of drinking from.

“I’m sorry,” Derek says, looking mortified, “I didn’t mean—”

Stiles reaches up to pat his face. “No, no, wait. Give me a second. Just trying really hard not to come in my pants.”

Derek pulls him up off his knees and lifts him back onto his lap, and wow, he is truly probably never going to get tired of that.

“Is it alright if I...?” Derek hedges, fingers on the button of his pants.

“Please,” Stiles echoes hoarsely, fingers trembling where they hang on to Derek’s shoulders at the thought of being touched by him.

Derek pops the button easily, slides down the zipper and reaches inside Stiles’ pants. He pulls Stiles out with a look of concentration that is as adorable as it is hot.

Stiles winces. “Little dry.”

He was going to suggest they use the lube he hasn’t had opportunity to touch in weeks, but Derek nods, lets go and spits on Stiles dick, replacing his grasp. Stiles squeezes his eyes shut again.

Stiles lets his head fall against Derek’s shoulder, panting wetly into his skin as Derek brings him off with long, luxuriously slow pulls. The precome that begins drippping from his cock also helps ease the way.

“How’s that?”

“Better,” Stiles squeaks.

“Good,” Derek says, the hint of a smirk in his voice. He knows exactly what he’s done, the bastard.

Stiles doesn’t last long, but with Derek touching him, his eyes focused on Stiles intensely, his mouth occasionally brushing his forehead like he’s something precious, it’s a miracle he lasts at all. 

-

Stiles gets to show his skills off a little more the second time around. Derek is out and snoring in minutes.

**Author's Note:**

> Drop a comment if u feel the urge love u
> 
> I have a few things finished, check em out it you'd liiiikeeee (i'm sorry for some of them)
> 
> I'm livthelion on tumblr bc i guess i don't remember how to link that shit


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